The Wedding Bed (The Sun Never Sets, Book One) Read online

  Calla would be appalled.

  For the first time ever, so was he.

  His carriage rolled to a stop before the Makara’s berth. Derek took one look at the vessel and swore. Nothing had moved. In the shipping trade, timing was everything. Getting goods to market before one’s competitor was the difference between making a fortune and sustaining heavy losses. The goods he had purchased to be loaded on the Makara for her return voyage to Calcutta remained stacked in crates on the pier. The imported Indian goods—most of it salvage after the unfortunate flood in the hold—still sat on the ship.

  Bloody hell. He leapt from the carriage and vaulted up the gangplank.

  Nathan Bedsford strode toward him, accompanied by three men Derek didn’t recognize. Bedsford was an American, tall and broad-shouldered, born with a face so inscrutable it could have earned him a fortune at the gaming tables. Instead, he’d chosen a life at sea. For that, Derek was grateful. Bedsford was without doubt the finest captain he’d ever hired. A fact which made it harder to understand why his imported goods languished aboard ship, while the cargo he’d purchased for export rested on the pier, waiting to be picked over by thieves.

  “What the hell is going on here?” he demanded.

  “I believe I can answer that, Keating,” replied one of the men beside Bedsford.

  Derek swung his gaze around. “Who are you?”

  “Henry Cecil, Custom House Superintendent.” Cecil had dark hair and dark, hooded eyes. Coarse stubble clung to his unshaven cheeks. He was of average height, with a burly thickness and aggressive air about him that suggested if he weren’t employed by the Customs House, he might have found his fortune in the boxing ring. He gestured to the men beside him. “Patton and Norse, my chief cargo inspectors.”

  “Gentlemen,” Derek said, biting back his impatience. “What’s this about?”

  “I’m afraid my men found a slight irregularity between the cargo your captain has declared and the cargo my inspectors have inventoried.”

  Derek’s gaze shot to Bedsford. While the captain remained silent, Derek didn’t miss the subtle ticking of a muscle along the side of his jaw—the first sign of emotion Derek had ever seen on the man’s face. Bedsford was clearly furious at the accusation of impropriety.

  “Explain,” Derek said.

  “Oh, I will,” Henry Cecil assured him. Assuming a posture of arrogant ease, he leaned one shoulder against the bulkhead and regarded Derek steadily. “But there’s another piece of business we need to get to first. I understand you’ve been poking around the docks, looking for a boy by the name of Ram Daas?”

  Derek froze. A wave of icy understanding washed through him. Carefully he said, “Go on.”

  “The fact is, that boy is in a bit of trouble.” Cecil released a theatrical sigh and shook his head. “I have witnesses who swear Ram Daas was responsible for the murder of Amit Gupta, former serang of the Ariel.”

  “Your witnesses are liars.”

  “Word is the two men had a grudge back in Calcutta,” Cecil continued as though Derek hadn’t spoken. “They sailed here on different vessels, found each other, and Daas took his vengeance.” He lifted his shoulder in an indifferent shrug. “Natives, both of ‘em. It’s a dirty business, but nothing we haven’t seen before. I expect there’ll be a confession soon.”

  Derek’s gaze narrowed. “You’ve found the boy?”

  “Not yet, but we will.” His lips twisted in an ugly smirk. “He can’t hide for long.”

  “What does any of this have to do with me or my ship?”

  “Well, seeing as how you’re so interested in finding Ram Daas, seems only natural that we work together. The sooner we find that boy and get him before the magistrate, the sooner my men can get back to work.” Cecil moved to one of the crates of cargo and rested his hand on top of it. “If they’re not distracted looking for that boy, my men will be less likely to make mistakes inventorying your goods. We can get the paperwork straightened out and get your cargo unloaded. Until then…” He let his words hang as his gaze locked on Derek. “There’s not much I can do.”

  There it was. Extortion. Blunt and ugly as sin. The Makara was effectively locked down while the customs inspectors picked through the ship’s cargo, the losses accruing with each hour that passed.

  “Well, Keating?” Cecil pressed. “Do we understand one another?”

  “Perfectly.”

  “Glad to hear it.” His expression smug, he turned and nodded to his subordinates. “There, you see? I told you he was a reasonable man.”

  Derek looked at Bedsford. “Assemble the lascars.” Once the captain had done so, Derek strode to the front of the group of natives, who were perhaps twenty in number. Once he’d finished his address, he turned to Cecil. “Do you understand Hindi?”

  “Nothing but unholy gibberish to me.”

  “Then allow me to translate what I just said. I’ve offered a five hundred pound reward to the man who brings Ram Daas to me unharmed. You won’t get anywhere near him. From this point forward, the boy is under my protection.”

  Henry Cecil’s face darkened. “That’s a mistake, Keating.”

  Derek caught him by his lapels and slammed him against the bulkhead. “It’s Lord Keating to you, Cecil,” he grit out, then shoved him aside. “You and your men have exactly three seconds to remove yourselves from this vessel, or you will be thrown overboard.”

  Cecil staggered backward, then found his footing. He indignantly tugged at the hem of his coat, restoring order to the garment. “You’ll regret this. I can promise you that.” His lip curled back in an ugly sneer as his gaze shot from the lascars to Derek. “Look at you. Dressed in gentleman’s finery. You’re just as heathen as the rest of them.”

  “Two seconds.”

  Captain Bedsford’s inscrutable visage cracked as a glimmer of satisfaction showed on his face. When he spoke, however, his voice was cool and in command. “See to it, men.”

  Uttering a dark oath, Cecil and his henchmen shoved past Derek and Bedsford and took themselves down the gangplank. Derek watched them leave with a feeling of immense satisfaction. No anger, no rage. Just an acute sense of accomplishment. When he turned, he found Bedsford watching him.

  “About the cargo—”

  “Never mind. It doesn’t matter.” It would be a financial setback, but he would shift his accounts and find a way to absorb it. “Send the crew out in shifts to comb the docks. Find Ram Daas and bring him to me.”

  “Yes, sir. Anything else?”

  “Yes.” Derek thought for a moment. “There’s a group of lascars near the Linley Warehouse. See that they’re given work.”

  Bedsford nodded. “Something specific you need them to do?”

  “Just see that they’re paid a decent wage, as well as given proper food and clothing.”

  He left the ship without another word and returned to his carriage. He opened the door and reached for the outer handle to pull himself aboard. But as his gaze skimmed his gloved hand, he hesitated. After toiling for years to amass his fortune, he’d purchased the finest pair of gloves he could find in all of London. Made of buttery soft calfskin and lined with mink, they were the first item of any expense Derek had allowed himself. He’d worn the same pair for years, though his valet had repaired them countless times and begged him to replace them with something new.

  Derek had steadfastly refused. The gloves became a symbol for him, something far more than a way to keep his hands warm. They served as an acknowledgement of his place among his peers, tangible proof of his stature and his worth. The estates, carriages, servants, and tailors followed thereafter, but the extravagant luxury of the gloves had come first.

  A rueful smile curved his lips. He had fooled no one. Except, perhaps, himself. Henry Cecil was right. He was no different from the rest of the lascars. With that acknowledgement, he felt a great unburdening take place within him, as though an oppressive weight had been lifted from his chest. The fragile bubble of pretense that he had prote
cted for so long had finally burst—and he was better for it.

  His way forward seemed eased, like a ship turning to sail with the wind, rather than against it. It was a sloppy metaphor, but he felt righted. Relief bubbled up inside him. Unable to contain it, he tilted back his head and released a shout of laughter.

  His driver, a bony-limbed older man, sat atop his carriage perch with the reins in his hands. He gave a start and swung around. “Are you all right, my lord?”

  Derek looked at him “I’ve just been called a heathen.”

  His driver paled. “I see. Shall I…do something, sir?”

  “Yes.”

  The man gulped. His eyes darted nervously toward the Makara, as though he might be called upon to avenge his master’s honor. It was all too ridiculous.

  “Drive me home.”

  Calla. He wanted to see Calla. Of anyone in the world, his bride would understand the sheer folly of the situation.

  But before he could board the carriage, he realized he had another witness to the spectacle he was making of himself. A native boy stood watching him, his dark eyes bright with undisguised curiosity. Derek was not good at judging the age of children. He guessed the boy to be eight, perhaps as old as ten. His coat and trousers were patched and worn. His hands were bare.

  “Here,” Derek said. “Take these.”

  The boy’s eyes widened in startled surprise. He stared at the mink-lined gloves. “But—”

  “It’s all right. I don’t need them anymore.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  The collective fragrance of women—Calla had almost forgotten how comforting it could be. As she breathed in the lovely, powdery aroma of Madame LeReau’s shop, she could almost believe she was back in the cramped, cluttered bedroom she shared with her sisters. Layers of soft feminine scents hung in the air. Traces of the perfumes worn by previous customers mingled with the delicate waft of hothouse roses, the sweet vanilla aroma of the biscuits Madame served, and the spicy tang of ginger tea.

  Everywhere she looked, she was greeted by warm shades of pinks and rose—from the broad striped silk that blanketed the walls, to the richly patterned Aubusson rug, to the plush velvet upholstery on the delicate settees. Whispers of women’s voices drifted through the hall, accompanied by the echoes of soft laughter.

  It was a perfect haven from the masculine hustle and bustle of the outside world, a feminine refuge from the offensive smells, frigid air, and barrage of loud noises that assaulted one on the streets of London. Calla didn’t realize until that moment how pent-up her nerves had been. She relaxed immediately, letting herself be ushered into the main salon for her appointment with Madame LeReau.

  Calla, whose experience with French modistes was admittedly limited, was nonetheless surprised by the shop’s owner. She had anticipated a stern-faced taskmaster with a critical demeanor. Instead she was greeted with genuine warmth by a short, plump woman with an easy smile and dark, mischievous eyes.

  “If you’ll come this way, Lady Keating,” she said. “I have reserved a private salon for you.”

  Within minutes, Calla found herself stripped down to her plain cotton chemise, drawers, and stockings. Madame surveyed her with a cool, clinical eye, her lips pursed in thought. Turning, she spoke in rapid-fire French to her assistants, two young women dressed in simple charcoal gowns, over which they each wore a multi-pocketed pink apron bulging with pin cushions, spools of thread, scissors, and various necessary accoutrements of the trade.

  “We will start with the undergarments,” Madame declared.

  “Thank you,” Calla said, “but that’s not necessary. I’ve really just need a gown or two.”

  “Of course, cherie. We will look at that later. First we must begin with a proper foundation.” Her assistants stepped forward, each pushing a wooden rack fitted with clever little wheels. “Gowns are for you,” Madame continued. “How you present yourself to the world. Undergarments are for your husband. How you present yourself to him. So. What does he like?” Madame moved to the first rack and lightly brushed her hand over a row of prim white shifts bedecked with ribbons, lace, and bows. “Little girl innocence, perhaps? The virgin to conquer night after night?”

  Calla’s expression must have revealed her mortification, for Madame gave a soft chuckle.

  “There is no shame in it, cherie. It is all a fantasy, a game played between a husband and wife.”

  “I see.” Calla nibbled her lower lip as she considered the garments. While she had been a virgin when she’d come to Derek, she didn’t sense that he’d particularly relished that fact. He’d treated her gently, of course, but that had been the extent of it. The combustible heat they’d generated had sprung from some other source. He did not seem keen on deflowering young virgins, nor did she believe he spent his days lusting after schoolgirls.

  “No,” she said.

  Madame LeReau gave a matter-of-fact nod and moved to the next rack. “The seductress, perhaps?” She nodded at an array of black brocade bustiers and crimson silk corsets, some garments so sheer they were barely there at all, while others were outfitted with sleek leather cording, fur trim, and metal hooks and eyelets that looked vaguely dangerous.

  Calla’s brows soared heavenward. “Women actually wear that?”

  A knowing smile curved Madame LeReau’s lips. “You would be surprised, cherie. My clients include some of the most prim and proper ladies of the ton, including several notable dowagers.”

  Well. That would certainly keep Calla occupied if she grew bored at an evening’s entertainment—discerning which society matron wore such scandalous underthings beneath her gown. Would the look on a woman’s face give her away? Or was it perhaps the way her husband looked at her that made her choice apparent?

  Madame cocked her head and peered at her expectantly. “Yes, cherie?”

  “No,” Calla replied. “Not for me.”

  “Very well.” Madame clapped her hands and shooed the rack from the room. Her assistants rolled it away, and then brought in another group of undergarments. Calla was immediately drawn to the shimmering array of colors. Colors that shifted with the light and melted into one another with graceful fluidity. Rich, complicated hues that were impossible to define, but reminded her of the Indian horizon at dawn, before the midday heat bleached the sky white as bone.

  Yes. Those were for her.

  Moving instinctively, Calla stepped forward and brushed her hand over the cool silks and satins. At Madame’s urging, she allowed herself to be laced into one exquisite corset after another. A few had matching garters and drawers, others were worn on their own. The garments were distinctly feminine—lifting her breasts, nipping in her waist, and rounding her hips. They displayed her natural assets to full advantage and gave her a quiet sense of power and confidence.

  Madame LeReau nodded approvingly. “Yes. One can tell if a woman is wearing the right undergarments simply by watching the way she moves. You must be as beautiful beneath your gowns as you are with them on.”

  Calla glanced in the looking glass, startled by what she saw. The woman who stared back at her was every bit as lovely as her sisters. In Calcutta, her siblings had been the undisputed beauties. She’d enjoyed watching them fuss, primp, and pamper as the male suitors flocked to their door for the privilege of courting them. Her satisfaction had been found in running the household from behind the scenes, quietly wielding her power in the background.

  But as she considered that, Calla wondered if her motives were perhaps not so altruistic. Between her mother’s helplessness and her father’s absence, she had been largely left to her own devices. Her drab attire and prim demeanor had rendered her nearly invisible, giving her liberty to do as she liked. In truth, she had reveled in the freedom of her relative obscurity.

  While she was being honest with herself, there was another truth that had to be faced. She had never met a man in Calcutta who stirred her the way Derek did. She had never had a reason to seek a man’s attention. Until now.

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nbsp; The sensation of dressing herself to please her husband excited her in a way she hadn’t anticipated. Rather than question it, Calla let herself be swept away, caught up in the luscious, harem-like atmosphere of Madame LeReau’s, where the only duty a woman had was to make herself desirable to a man.

  As she surveyed the selection of ready-made gowns Madame’s assistants carried in, her gaze shot past the demure pastels bedecked with ruffles and bows, lingering instead on a grouping of richly colored velvets and silks. There she hesitated, sending a questioning glance Madame’s way.

  “What is right for one woman is not right for another. Do not be afraid to define yourself, cherie. Choose what you like.”

  Calla drew in a breath, then let it out slowly. “Those,” she said.

  Gowns that would no longer allow her to hide in a crowd, but would announce her presence boldly. Gowns designed to entice and enthrall. Gowns that would not allow a man to dismiss her quite as easily as her husband had earlier that morning. At that thought, a small, satisfied smile curved her lips.

  She chose a velvet claret saturated with color, deeper than ruby, but not so garish as to be called purple. A rich indigo with just enough hints of iridescent peacock blue to make it interesting. A vibrant emerald gown trimmed with ebony lace, and a gown of shimmering, liquid gold. Lastly, a heavenly cream silk brocade that fairly sculpted itself to her body.

  Derek’s words drifted through her thoughts. Buy anything you like, so long as it is both exquisite and expensive.

  She had certainly accomplished that. Furthermore, if Madame was correct in saying a woman defined herself by the clothing she wore, she had done that, too. Bold and brave to the outside world, but softer and vulnerable beneath, where only Derek could see.